Being Wicked
by MnahMnahMnah
Summary: Hermione Granger was meant to be an accomplished and elegant young witch. She was definitely not meant to secretly join the Order, cause scandals or fall in love with a rakish death-eater or his sinfully wicked smirking. AU. Regency, sorta. Dramione.


**Title: **Being Wicked.

**Rating: **T. Will be an M.

**Summary: **Hermione Granger was meant to be an accomplished and elegant young witch. She was _not _meant to secretly join the order, cause a scandal or fall in love with a rakish death-eater, with a sinfully, crooked smirk. AU. Regency, sorta.

**Warnings: **There will be sex later on, and wizardy violence. If wizardy violence, or wizardy sex offends you, then go away. Shooo! Also. A sinfully attractive Draco Malfoy. But you could have guessed that yourself, I suppose.

**I don't own Harry Potter, J.K Rowling does. First Harry Potter fiction, be nice? Also, an important note. For the sake of this story Draco has gone to Durmstrang and never met Hermione, Harry or Ron, though he does know all his Slytherin friends, but because of their parents, not through Hogwarts. Hermione is adopted and everyone thinks she is pureblood. Voldemort and Tom Riddle are believed to be different people but they _aren't_! And there is no "golden trio" and none of the books have happened LOL. Hermione, Ron and Harry are close friends, but are yet to be tried by the Dark Lord. They will be though... Everyone will! So just remember all of that please, everyone thinking Hermione is a pureblood is key, later on. Ta for reading, please review! **

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><p> As an eighteenth century, upper-class witch, Hermione Granger was meant to be an accomplished young lady. And she was, in some ways. She was accomplished, in the way that her N.E. had been <em>outstanding, <em>but not in the way that she was graceful, or elegant; or talented at singing, dancing, or embroidery. She was meant to be disappointed that her fiancé had cut short her shopping trip in Diagon Alley and taken her to the Ministry of Magic, to watch a debate instead. She was not meant to be glad that she had been taken to the upper gallery and left to amuse herself, whilst her fiancé dealt in matters in the hall beneath it.

Today was an important debate, and Hermione was glad she had gotten her way in the end. Well, she hadn't got her own way, her infuriating fiancé had decided he wanted to go, to look better to the public, but she liked to think of it as such. Down below her in the Grand Hall, the Order of the Phoenix members were getting ready for their debate. Hermione waved to her friends from the upper gallery—she could spot the Weasley twins and her close companion Ronald Weasley even from her distance, what with their bright, scarlet hair. Next to Ronald was her other best friend Harry Potter—a distinguished young man, who was an orphan, like herself. All of the Order of the Phoenix's hopes rested on this young wizard, whom Hermione had gone to Hogwarts with, if they could win the upcoming election. What the Order of the Phoenix campaigned for was more rights for muggle-borns, squibs and half-breeds. They let in all sorts of members to their party such as a half-giant, Rubeus Hagrid, and two squibs, Arabella Figg and Argus Filch. Obviously this didn't make them very popular, which was why Albus Dumbledore, the original leader of the Order of the Phoenix, had selected Harry to front their campaign. He was an extremely popular and known as the 'Boy-who-lived' because of his horrific past as a young child. His parents were brutally murdered by an evil wizard known only as "Lord Voldemort", in a dark age before the turn of the century. It was hard not to love Harry Potter, a tragic orphan, with bottle green eyes. He was humble, which gave him appeal and a job with the Order. Hermione didn't think he was doing too badly after Hogwarts, and was quite proud to be his best friend.

If only her fiancé would let her join the Order… Harry and Ron _needed _her support. All through Hogwarts she had been like a second mother to them and she was often told by Ginny Weasley, a close friend of hers, through letters and at tea parties, that she was sorely missed. However, if Hermione was honest she only really wanted to join the Order because all her friends had joined it straight after Hogwarts. Neville Longbottom, a respectable boy in her year, had joined, but was a herbologist on the side. She knew very little about muggle-borns and squibs, and was almost indifferent on the matter. Harry Potter believed firmly in their rights, however, and so Hermione supported it. As an orphan, she felt a special bond to Harry who also knew what it felt like to lose a parent. To lose both parents.

Hermione had been orphaned at six years old, and would be lying if she said she remembered them well. She didn't. After they died she was sent to an orphanage where she would stay until she was eighteen and the small fortune she had been left was hers. Then at eleven she found out she was a witch, and her whole life had been toppled over. She remembered the head of Hogwarts School Albus Dumbledore coming to meet her and telling her all about the Wizarding World. She remembered being told about her pure-blood parents and how an old family friend of her parents were going to look after her. The Wood family were an old, aristocratic wizarding family with distinguished members. Lord Wood, the head of the family, was a politician and his wife Lady Wood designed dress robes, in the latest fashions. Her step-brother Oliver Wood was an avid Qudditch Player and captained Puddlemere United. She was especially close to her step-brother, Oliver, as they had spent a few years at school together. Hermione was sad that she would soon be moving in with her fiancé and leaving her dear Oliver behind.

Ugh! Her fiancé! Hermione was glad to get away from him and watch the debate instead. Lord and Lady Wood had assured her he would be a good match. All her step-brother Oliver had to say on him was how much of an excellent goal-keeper he was. He had turned out to be an excellent goal-keeper, but a very shoddy match, indeed. Hermione didn't care much. She didn't need his love to be happy.

It was rare that Hermione Granger had a moment to herself—her fiancés mother often attached herself to Hermione's side and lectured the whole day; however she was out at the theatre that day, thankfully. Hermione was by herself and at a liberty to _be _herself, free to indulge in the unrivalled pleasure of observing without being observed. Once again, she thanked her stars that she had been dumped in the Upper Gallery.

In The Grand Hall below Albus Dumbledore swept over the coloured clay tiles to reach the Order's benches.

The Grand Hall was one of the most famous rooms of the Ministry of Magic and Hermione knew it intimately from the pictures she had studied. She knew it from the gold painted beams of ceiling to the slight dip in the floor where the foundations had been repaired. The Ministry was an old place, and The Grand Hall was the oldest part, built over the cellars and tunnels of the original ministry.

She leaned over the balcony railings as though she could float below and join the Order, instead of waiting for her fiancé to get bored and take them home. Underneath her hands the lacquered wood grew warm as she waited patiently for the debate to begin.

"Sit up _straight_, Lady Granger," Lord Mclaggen instructed, suddenly, behind her. "You are lounging, and the men below will see your face."

Her fiancé Lord Cormac Mclaggen came to a halt in her peripheral vision. She shot him a dark, murderous gaze before she remembered who he was, who she was, and that they were practically in public. She tried to tell herself that hexing her fiancé would be inappropriate. She tried, slightly harder, to edge her chair towards the balcony so she could continue to look down, without lounging, on the hall below where the Order's policies were about to be played out.

Harry Potter had started speaking, and the women behind Hermione hid behind their fans and remarked on his tragic past , romantic eyes and his sweet voice.

Hermione had nothing against his romantic eyes, what she could see of them: they were nice eyes, to be sure. She did, however, wish that the ladies would keep their own voices down so she could hear what his sweet voice was saying.

All in all this wasn't the experience Hermione Granger had wanted.

She could just about tell that Harry was speaking about contact with Giants from the north, and how willing they were to form a truce and work with wizards, another man, Remus Lupin, a werewolf, was saying how much society could grow and benefit from such an alliance. In Hermione's opinion this was slightly more important than opinions of the speaker's countenance and whether he was truly going to marry Ginevra Weasley.

Hermione leant forward to hear better.

"Sit still, Lady Granger," said Lord Mclaggen, irritably.

Hermione stiffly informed herself that it was not acceptable to bring her clutch purse down on her fiancé's ear. She told her eviller side that Mclaggen was doing her a favour allowing her to be here at all. She didn't quite believe it.

She tried to be grateful. She was managing admirably until he stood up, and with slow measured steps walked to the edge of the balcony, and resting his hands on the railing, peered down. It was the last straw.

The ladies behind her forgot about The-Boy-Who-Lived and began whispering about Cormac Mclaggen's rugged features and daring Quidditch games. As Harry Potter was forgotten so was the crucial point of the speech lost in the rising giggles about how luck Lady Granger must be to have as fine a male specimen as Lord Mclaggen.

Hermione felt like crying in frustration. No she felt like turning round and throttling the two ladies, before bashing her fiancé to death with their stupid fans. But such things were not allowed, in civilised society, so she focused meditatively on the people below her instead.

The speaker had changed to the otherside; the voice was deeper, a little more sensual, dare Hermione admit it. The two women behind her stopped giggling and leant forwards to peek at the devilishly handsome Tom Marvolo Riddle. He was fifty-something, but kept himself looking on the right side of thirty with a simple glamour charm, Hermione suspected. She did not like Tom Riddle, the leader of the Death Eater party. Just the name alone, spelled trouble. The Death Eater party were the complete opposite of the Order, wanting to ban Muggle-borns, squibs, half-breeds and all magical creatures such as Goblins from Wizarding Society. The Death Eaters preached that being a Witch or Wizard put you above _everything _else. They also wanted to remove the statute of secrecy and give wizards ruling over muggles. Tom Riddle was insanely popular in the wizarding world, despite his more than sinister policies. He oozed charm, with his perfect, straight teeth, slick dark hair and pale skin. His eyes glittered as they roamed over the audience, and he spoke about the superiority of the average witch or wizard. Everyone listened intently to his sensual, commanding voice. Tom Riddle called Harry lax and delusional. He said that Harry Potter was fresh out of school and far too young to understand the real word. He talked about witch-hunts and cruelty against wizards throughout history. He commented on Harry's age (eighteen) again and Hermione scowled as many politicians below began to nod in agreement. Harry Potter was eighteen years of age and politicians couldn't even _remember _being that young, yet alone appreciate it.

Hermione glanced back at Lord Mclaggen and took in his pristine robes, manly shoulders and sharp, hard eyes. She decided she'd rather look elsewhere, but she was quite sick of staring at Tom Riddle. She had the rest of her life to stare at Lord Mclaggen, anyway.

She turned her gaze to the other members of the Death Eater party, and then noticed the smirk. It was smooth, and slightly crooked. It drew out of the dark—tempting. A little sinful.

It had trouble stamped all over it. As did the owner, from his polished riding boots to his gleaming, blond hair.

Hermione looked away, quickly—feeling as if she had enough trouble this month anyway. She focused on Cormac Maclaggen and thought about her wedding and the happily ever after. Well, she thought about how she'd be reasonably content with suitable connections, anyway.

Her impending husband glanced at her with his harsh, sharp eyes. He looked at her like she was weighing her up. Calculating how many galleons exactly her dead parents had left her, and how he could benefit from her.

People were politely applauding Tom Marvolo Riddle as Albus Dumbledore stepped forwards to speak. Hermione smiled—Albus Dumbledore was a national favourite of everyone. A common household name. Tom Riddle was good, but Dumbeldore was better. She stared down at the Hall and waited impatiently for her old headmaster to begin.

That was when Cormac guided her to her feet and said, "I've seen enough. We're leaving. My father expects punctuality, even from us."

The women behind her tittered as Hermione told herself it would be inappropriate to tell her fiancé she could _bloody well stand up herself_! She resolved to just write about it in her diary instead. Hermione did not like keeping a diary—but she felt if she didn't air out all her bad thoughts, then her brain would simply explode. She thought about the nasty things she would write about Cormac Mclaggen later, and all the exclamation marks she would put after it.

That would show him.

"I don't believe," he continued patronizingly as he guided her from the gallery with a well-placed hand to her back, "that you understood much of it anyway."

Hermione seethed silently.

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><p>Being part of a pureblood family, even if she was adopted, and marrying into an old pureblood family, Hermione was expected to attend old pureblood family balls.<p>

As well as not being elegant or an accomplished dancer, Hermione also knew she was not pretty, and distrusted anyone who tried to tell her otherwise. It didn't upset her that her teeth were slightly too big, or that her hair was a little frizzy, because it didn't matter who she married. When she married she would be rich, with her inheritance finally passed to her. She could do what she wanted, once Cormac got used to having a wife and lost interest. What really worried Hermione, was that she was an irredeemably wicked young witch.

It was a truth she had come to slowly; spurred on by her disapproving mother-in-law to be, the tried patience of Lord Mclaggen and the disappointment of her old, tired step-father.

Tonight would be different: tonight she would conquer the wicked heroine of her alter ego. She would not run off, she would not find an adventure, she would not leap to wild conclusions, and she would keep out of trouble. She would not try to transfigure anything. Any sort of Confundus charm was out of the question, and so was sneaking off to look through the host's library, or potion stores.

Hermione stood quietly beneath the glittering spread of the Zabini ballroom and tried to keep still. In her new dress and hired jewels she was a walking advertisement for her fiancés success, and she had played her part by smiling and curtsying, and even seeing the Minister of Magic for a brief moment. He had had dark, stern eyes and a portly face.

He had called her pretty, but Hermione had forgiven him the error of judgement and presumed he was referring to her dress, which was very pretty. It was painstakingly woven out of puffs, and frills and whalebone. The dressmaker had achingly sculpted her into something worth looking at, and it didn't matter how delicately Hermione moved, her skirts always rustled noisily behind her.

Now that the ball was in full swing she felt safe in sneaking back through the house-elves and dancing guests and the glittering crystal and tried not feel like she was a spare cog in part of a well-oiled machine. She hid behind some heavy silver drapes and watched everyone instead.

She wished someone like Ron or Ginny were here. But their family were too low down in the hierarchy to be invited, and the Zabini family supported the Death Eater party, so no Order Members had been invited.

She watched raptly as the dancers whirled around the floor, straight black legs and skirts swirling like in a fairytale. She thought about how nervous Harry would be if he was here, and was reminded of the Yule Ball and how nervous he had been dancing with one of the Patil sisters.

She smiled to herself as she imagined all her friends in current scene. It was an indulgence she allowed herself when she missed her friends, but it faltered somewhat when she realised that someone was smiling back. Her mouth froze, and she looked quickly down at her clasped hands.

It had been a familiar smile. A familiar smirk, more than a smile really. A sinful one.

Hermione adjusted the drape of her skirt, and fiddled carefully with the light purple sleeves of her bodice. Despite the internal structure of the corsetry the dress didn't seem to fit quite straight and it revealed rather more shoulder than she was used to. However, she was used to wrapping up in shawls and hiding in the nearest tree while she read books. As she smoothed the dusky material of the bodice itself she counted to ten.

One.

Two.

Three… _maybe just one peek…?_

She chanced a glance upwards and he was still there with his long, legs and well-cut coat and that smouldering smirk. It was still aimed at her, as though he recognised her and if she was in any doubt, he removed it by toasting to her with his fire-whiskey. Hermione looked behind her, only to find a window, and remembered she was hiding behind the curtains.

She looked back at the smirking blonde.

Trouble.

She fluttered her fingers in a moronic wave that was regretted instantly after and took evasive actions by swerving away from the curtain and slipping quickly past the numerous buffet tables. She tripped over a house-elf and dropped her fan. It took everything in her not to swear like a commoner, and she smiled politely at a concerned looking wizard before taking off through the crowds again. She past many ministry men, office-workers, aurors and all sorts of wizards, who followed her lithe figure but didn't engage her. They all knew she belonged to the formidable Cormac Mclaggen. He was only a Quidditch player, but he was a rich one, with lots of connections. Hermione half wanted a man to stop her and talk to her, but she quickly squashed the wicked thought and forced herself to forget about it.

The troublesome boy had moved. It took her a while to locate him, and despite the fact he was sipping his fire-whiskey from cut glass he was still watching her over the curving rim.

This time Hermione decided not to acknowledge him and glided further around the dance floor. He followed her with deliberate paces, keeping a watchful eye on her progress and when she caught his silver eyes again he responded with curling lips. That sultry smirk, again.

Their gaze met over shoulders, and sparkling tiaras. Through fluttered fans she caught a glimpse of his smile, and despite the fact Hermione knew it would get her into trouble she couldn't help but giggle, for all that she tried to look at least a little bit reproachful.

Hermione thought for a moment to try and lose him in the card room, but couldn't face the thick smoke hanging by the moulded ceiling, or the fact that it would surely be more his domain than hers. Where to hide?

A roar went up from the table closest to the door and some one called out, "Lucius, how is it you win all these card games? You have the demmdest luck, sir!"

She jumped when a man in his late twenties left the room and nearly knocked her over.

"Watch out, you stupid woman!" He growled at her as he strode past, purposefully. She let out a long, nervous breath. That had been Tom Marvolo Riddle! It came as no surprise to her that he was a bastard in real life. She turned round and kept going.

She moved closer to the wall, keeping a hesitant look over her shoulder until she came to a stop near the orchestra. She settled her hands demurely and sat down at one of the many white, crystal tables. On the dancefloor all the women turned, hands extended artlessly, before they were spun back to their partners.

Hermione tried not to feel jealous. She tried not to think about how much she'd love to dance, even if she _was _bad at it. She concentrated on the white skirts of Duchess Malfoy who was dancing with the host of the ball Lord Zabini.

"Does the lady not wish to dance, then?"

The voice was so sudden she nearly gasped, but her governesses over her holidays from Hogwarts, hadn't schooled her strictly for her to commit such a slip up. She didn't need to look to know who was addressing her; she kept her gaze on the toes of his polished riding boots instead.

"What I wish." She said, "and what I can actually achieve— they're mutually exclusive, don't you think?" she tried to be cold, in the hope he and his tempting smirk would give up and leave.

He paused: she heard the movement of fabric as he folded his arms.

"That's not a 'no'," he responded in a voice that engaged the base of her spine and made her shiver, deliciously.

"Yes," she said deliberately, a little rudely, "it was, but I see it was too sophisticated for you. I cannot dance, my fiancé does not like me dancing with other men and he is otherwise engaged at present."

"I don't wish to offend your fiancé, naturally." His voice was laced with something Hermione couldn't quite place—a little arrogance perhaps. She suspected it was because humour didn't play a very great role in her everyday life.

"Naturally," she murmured.

"But," he continued, "I didn't ask you if you could dance; I asked you if you wished to."

The smile was back, taking over her face, and Hermione wished that trouble didn't have such a talent for finding her and that it had to be so pleasantly presented. Her gaze had moved up from his shoes and she was now looking at the place where his knees swept up into shapely thighs.

Long, well formed thighs the shape of which the fabric wasn't even trying to disguise. The trousers were so fashionably narrow they were almost indecent.

Hermione closed her eyes, and steeled herself to be responsible. "Excuse me, sir. I have to go." She lifted her skirt and went to step round him. She moved, and he moved with her so that she was looking at the starched collar of his shirt and its well-ordered necktie.

"Have I offended you already?" The humour and the arrogance were still in his voice. "My mother will be impressed: for me to have offended a lady before I have even learnt her name."

"Sir," Hermione wondered if he tied his cravats by hand or if he used a wand to get it so accurate. She tried not to look at his face. "We have not been introduced."

"Draco Malfoy, son of Lord and Lady Malfoy of Malfoy Manor." He bowed, and the collar was momentarily replaced by a crown of brilliant blond hair, brushed back to the nape of his neck.

"No," Hermione shook her head from side to side "We need a mutual acquaintance before we are introduced!"

"I don't have one on me at present," he mocked back, "dreadfully sorry."

Hermione scowled in a most unfeminine manner.

Master Malfoy straightened up and Hermione tried not to be curious about the face that would crown the rest of the body. "And you seem to be all abandoned," he continued pleasantly. "My mother is here, I mentioned. Surely a man who brings his mother to a ball can be trusted."

Hermione didn't agree with him. She didn't trust the perfectly-packaged trouble in front of her at _all. _

"Besides, I know who you are," he continued in his pleasing drawl. "You are Hermione Granger, or Lady Granger, or Lady Wood, whichever you prefer. Adopted daughter of the distinguished Lord Woord and fiancé to Lord Mclaggen, everyone's favourite fancy Quidditch man."

Hermione snorted, in amusement, before realising he knew a suspicious amount about her.

"How do you know that?" she glanced up sideways at his chin. It was strong and angular, she thought, not steep and pinched like Captain Maclaggen's. His skin was terribly pale and completely unblemished.

"I am a terrible gossip," he said offhandedly. "But I find that one has to listen to gossip: and everyone loves to gossip about young _love_." He laughed humourlessly at that, before he continued. "I'm also a terrible dancer, and therefore need the practise."

"I really can't dance." Hermione said but her voice trailed off as he stepped back and held out a hand to her. It was clad in a white glove. The fingers were very long and slender.

"Then you clearly need the practise as well," he mused.

"No, I mean I can't dance with you," Hermione snapped. "I can't, I mustn't… I won't!"

"Is your card already marked?"

Hermione realised that she was closer to stamping her foot in frustration then she had been since she was ten. "Mister Malfoy," she began marshalling her words for a stinging dismissal before she swept passed him.

"Lady Granger," he stepped forward and her hand found its way into his, her small, gloved hands swamped in his warmth. "You are going to dance with me. A beautiful witch should not be neglected in such a way. If you _want _to dance, we will _dance_."

Hermione took a sudden breath in. He'd changed tactics so fast that her nasty, careful retort had sprinted straight out of her head and got tangled in the huge, white mess of a nearby lady's hair.

Her eviller side swooned.

"Is that a yes?" His mouth was by her ear, and the diamonds hung there quivered right along with her artfully spelled curls. "We are all guests here after all..."

Hermione decided the decision had already been made for her, and that it wasn't really her fault at all. He had already taken her other hand and placed it on the back of his collar. His body was lithe, but solid and so nearly pressing against hers that she felt week at the knees. Her necklace was suddenly laying heavily across her neck. She was finding it hard to breathe. She just knew that people were watching. That horrid spinster Rita Skeeter had been invited to the Zabini Ball, she had seen her early. She'd have a field day, with this.

_Listen to me Hermione! _Said her good side. _You can't do this! Cormac is here, and there are lots of people who will tell him. Rita Skeeter is here for goodness sake! This man may have a nice voice, and long legs, and elegant fingers, but he's a rake! Just look at him! A brigand!_

_Mm_, her wicked side purred, _a brigand!_

Hermione took a step away and bent down to gather her skirts, then she looked up, and this time she met his eyes.

Light, mocking eyes a bright shade of silver with a hint of something that went far deeper than cocky amusement. His hair was brushed to perfection. In fact the only thing that seemed to upset the balance of tidiness was the crooked smirk. His lips were full, nose straight, and skin perfect. Hermione felt the wicked girl inside her smile coyly back. She stepped back towards him, hand curling round his neck.

"Well then, let's dance."

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><p><strong>I was inspired by some Regency Harry Potter fanfictions, and a coupla original stories on some other site. Yay other site! <strong>


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